Being a townie, it was rare that my family made the long drive to the ocean for a day at the beach. On this particular day, Mother and I, as well as my aunt and two cousins, set out for just that. The anticipation was almost tangible as we packed our baskets with sandwiches, lemonade, and towels, the car filled with laughter and the scent of sun cream. It was a beautiful day, sunny and hot, the kind of day that promised adventure and memories. My mother was a picture of simple elegance—she wore a plain but neat summer dress, always favoring comfort over fashion, and her hair was carefully tucked beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her shoes were sensible, and she carried herself with a quiet dignity. Her manner was calm and composed, her eyes always watchful, and her voice gentle but firm. She stood for no nonsense, her rules clear and unwavering, yet she was always fair, her discipline balanced by kindness. There was a warmth in her smile that made us feel safe, and a steady strength in her presence that let us know she would always look after us. She was the sort of mother who expected good behavior, but whose love was never in doubt.
The beach was crowded, a patchwork of colorful blankets and umbrellas, and the joy of summer seemed to fill the air. My cousins and I, giddy with excitement, raced to the water’s edge, our feet sinking into the warm sand. We swam in the waves, shrieking with delight as the cool water splashed over us, and dug elaborate castles in the sand, our hands gritty and sun-warmed. Our mothers sat nearby, chatting and laughing, occasionally calling out reminders to stay close, stay together, and let them know when we were heading back to the water. Their voices, though sometimes stern, were always caring, a constant thread of safety in the busy scene.
My cousins, being older, generally ignored me, lost in their own games and conversations. But I was content to play by myself, letting my imagination run wild. The novelty of the place, the endless stretch of sand and the rhythmic crash of the waves, made everything feel magical. I must have become oblivious to the crowds, the bustle, and my Mother’s warnings. Building in the sand, I decided to dig a deep hole and fill it with water, convinced I could make my own little pool. Off I trotted by myself to the waterfront, my pail swinging in my hand, eager to scoop up the sparkling sea water.
Then, horror struck. Looking back, all I could see was an ocean of people, blankets, and sun umbrellas, each one indecipherable from the other. My heart pounded as I realized my mother, my aunt, and my cousins were simply gone, swallowed up by the crowd. Panic rose in my chest, my small hands clutching the pail tightly. I called out, but my voice was lost in the noise. The world suddenly felt enormous and frightening, and I wished more than anything to see my mother’s familiar face.
Why is one mistake always compounded by another? Instead of staying put and waiting to be found, I started off to find those that I had lost, becoming even more hopelessly lost. My legs grew tired as I wandered, my eyes scanning every face, hoping for a glimpse of someone I knew. It seemed like hours, but it was perhaps only minutes before a lifeguard, tall and kind, noticed my distress. He knelt down, spoke gently, and soon had me reunited with a tearful mother, who hugged me close when I was given back into her care, her relief evident in the way she held me tight.
It was not long though before Mother’s tears of relief were quickly replaced with words of anger. My memory is more of the actions than of the words. I vaguely recalled being castigated in words for failing to obey Mother’s warnings, but I have strong recollections of the actions she took. Her voice, usually so gentle, was now sharp with worry and fear, and I could see the tension in her jaw as she spoke.
In front of God and all the people at the beach—who seemed to have all eyes focused on my very upset Mother and this very naughty little boy—I stood totally unprepared for the spanking that would immediately follow. My heart pounded as Mother’s hand gripped my arm, her face set with determination. She sat down firmly on a nearby bench, pulled me over her lap, and without hesitation, began to spank me right there in the open. The embarrassment burned almost as much as the anticipation of what was to come, and I wished I could disappear into the sand. I could feel the rough fabric of her dress against my skin, the world spinning as I was positioned for punishment.
Before I was aware of the seriousness of my situation, I found myself face down over my Mother’s lap, my still-damp bottom feeling the sting of the first of many, many hard slaps that would rain down, punishing my cheeks. Each smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, the sound carrying above the surf and drawing the attention of everyone nearby. My mother’s hand was relentless, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, each slap harder than the last. The pain built quickly, a fiery sting spreading across my bare skin, making me squirm and kick helplessly. I could feel the heat and the sharp, tingling ache as her palm connected again and again, leaving no part of my bottom untouched. The shame of being spanked so publicly was almost as intense as the pain itself, my cheeks burning with both humiliation and the growing soreness.
I squirmed and kicked and wailed as Mother smacked my bottom hard and fast. My legs flailed, my toes digging into the sand, but there was no escape from her firm grip. Each slap sent a jolt through my body, the sting growing sharper with every strike. I heard the vague sound of the words she spoke as the spanking progressed—stern reminders of the rules I had broken—but was only truly aware of the constant sting and the strong desire to escape my fate. Tears streamed down my face, my nose running, my cries growing louder as the spanking continued. I promised myself I would never wander off again, desperate for the punishment to end.
The spanking continued until Mother’s worry and anger abated and she was satisfied that her naughty boy had truly learned his lesson. My bottom throbbed with pain, each slap leaving a hot, tingling mark that would remind me of this lesson for days to come. When at last she stopped, I lay limp and sobbing over her lap, my body shaking with the effort of crying. The lesson was not just about obedience, but about the depth of her love and the fear she felt at the thought of losing me.
Lifted off her lap, punished and safe, Mother hugged me again before helping me to put back on my swim suit—covering a very soundly smacked bottom, now red and sore. Her arms around me were warm and forgiving, and I knew that, despite everything, I was loved and protected. The pain lingered, but so did the lesson, and I would never forget the day I learned it so thoroughly.
